


John Wick: Koschei (or, "Cold Cereal and Coffee")

by EmmiBee



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Copious Fluff, F/M, Original Villain(s) - Freeform, Post-Canon, Sylvana belongs to friend Rebecca, additional tags to be added with their corresponding chapters, coffee shop au but its not an au, helen had a personality 2021, john wick 1-3 spoilers, looming angst, this is a fluffy romance but it will not be all sunshine and rainbows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmiBee/pseuds/EmmiBee
Summary: When John Wick, a once-retired-twice-shy hitman, wakes up on the couch of an innocent Good Samaritan with his work-wounds tended to, he must decide whether to embrace this second chance at a new life or run back to the familiar routine of the most deadly assassin the world has known.However, when an aggrieved mob boss sets out to destroy whatever good things John has left in his life, his choice may already be made for him.
Relationships: John Wick/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie

Pearls.

It was _always_ pearls.

They feel cool between her fingers— but the dull, soothing sound of them pooling into her palm barely reach her ears over the blaring, chest-thumping beat of the nightclub.

"Come _on_ , Sammy, you said you'd dance with us!" 

Tattooed fingers grip her shoulder, but their owner freezes when they see what she has in her hands.

Slowly, Sam lifts her eyes to look at her friend. 

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to.

"Sorry, Boss," the friend swallows, and they and the crowd they had with them disappear, clearing from her booth with their tails between their legs.

Idiots. Lovable idiots, but still idiots.

She's careful not to let the pearls touch the dirty table. Instead she lets them run between her fingers, feeling the smooth surface, letting it anchor her, letting the emotions build in her throat until her eyes are blurry and hot. She savors the sensation. It makes her feel powerful and dangerous.

Her knuckles bump the table as someone sits across from her, her fingers clenching around the necklace protectively.

Soft brown eyes settle on her tight fists, and the man of indeterminate age sets a small suitcase on the table. "Are you certain about this, Sam?"

She grinds her teeth until it hurts. "Yeah. I am."

He looks at her with sympathy. She hates it. "I am not here to tell you your business, as I'm sure you're well aware."

"Yep."

"But I must say out of obligation, as your _friend_ … this isn't going to bring your sister back."

Sam lets the pearls roll across her palms once more, remembering their rightful place around a white-pale neck just below a sadistic, intelligent smile. She remembers that smile, remembers how her sister had laughed at Sam's jokes, how she'd wiped her tears, guided her and protected her and set her on the path to where she sits now.

Except it should have been Lily sitting opposite of her, not a liaison.

No, this isn't going to bring her back. Nothing will, _He_ made sure of that.

A smile grows wide and cold across her face. 

"I know. I just don't care."

***

The first thing he becomes aware of is the chill.

Then, it's the smell. 

It's not an unpleasant smell, for the most part. It smells like many older New York apartments smell; faint must and distant cigarette smoke, but in addition to something more warm and pleasant: strong coffee, faint peppermint, and something distinctly feminine… some kind of inexpensive coconut hair product, often marketed toward middle-to-low-class women. 

The surface he's lying on is reasonably cushioned, but narrow and a bit too short for his long legs, causing his ankles to hang over the edge. He seems to be wearing… unfamiliar clothes.

John Wick opens his eyes.

He could tell even before he opened them that the area is dimly lit— just the soft glow of fluorescents coming from an adjoining room. Slowly, his face and jaw aching, he lifts his head and turns it.

A woman sits across the room in a worn but ornate chair. She holds a mug of some steaming drink in her hands, the sleeves of her sweater pulled over her palms as protection from the heat. At his movement, she lowers the mug from her face and gapes at him.

She seems young, with a round face and large eyes, but John knows that appearances can be deceiving and underestimating an opponent can be deadly. Square eyeglasses slip down her nose— poor eyesight, badly fit eyewear. Her whole form is wrapped in a thick sweater and long house pants. A coffee table hinders his view of her footwear, but he wagers that she's wearing something warm.

When she lowers her drink from her lips, he catches a glimpse of something tucked behind her elbows and lying across her knees. A bright pink metal baseball bat.

So she's armed. But she would have to put down her drink, pick up her bat, stand up, and move around a coffee table in order to reach him. He's certain that even in his condition, he would be faster than her.

She doesn't have the general demeanor of a threatening person, anyway.

Stiffly, John inclines his head, indicating her chosen weapon. "You hit me with that?" he grinds out. Speaking hurts, and it occurs to him that it's been many hours since any sort of liquid has passed his throat.

The woman's eyes widen, and she lowers her mug more, giving him a fantastic view of the absolutely _atrocious_ sequined cat head embroidered on her sweater. Quickly, she shakes her head. Long brown curls bounce around her shoulders. "No, I— I didn't hit you! I'm just being… cautious."

Hm. Almost definitely a civilian, but John doesn't let down his guard quite yet. Carefully, he tests his limbs, finds them to be working well enough, and lets his hand fall to his midsection where he's pretty sure he was shot at least once. Maybe stabbed. Possibly broke ribs.

His hand meets soft fabric and the worn papery smoothness of a printed decal. Slowly, he pinches the shirt between two fingers and pulls up slightly to get a better look. He sees yellow and black letters, striped and angular. _"Stryper"?_

"Um, sorry, those were my dad's. He was a bit… broader than you, but better than smaller I guess."

John drops the fabric and looks back at his captor. It's a bit hard to tell in the low lighting, but she seems nervous. This isn't surprising, but what is surprising is that she doesn't look… afraid. At all. 

In fact, she seems more embarrassed about the clothing, for some reason.

"Where are my things?" he asks, realizing his situation. Nearly everything he owns he carries on his back and in his pockets.

"In the bathroom," she says immediately. "There was… um, there was a lot of blood. But everything's still there. I didn't snoop or anything, I promise."

A likely story. But she's attempting to be friendly, at least. John isn't in the business of unnecessary rudeness, so he inclines his head once again. "Thank you," he says, before continuing his mental examination of his physical state. Fingers and toes, all accounted for… relatively. Even breaths with no coughing suggests that neither of his lungs have been punctured. Promising.

He pulls up the hem of his shirt to check his wounds, barely registering the _squeak_ of protest the woman makes. 

Bullet wounds and stab wounds are covered carefully with gauze and medical tape. Some of the nastier bruises glisten with some kind of salve, and while there are no stitches, there are… _Hello Kitty_ band-aids stretched across the cuts, pulling the skin tightly shut. Huh. 

Blinking, John lifts his eyes to his unassuming savior(?), who is hiding behind her mug, and who peeks over the edge of it when he speaks. "...Did you do this?" he asks, dipping his chin toward his chest. He can't help the disbelieving edge to his otherwise monotone voice.

"Y-yeah," she says, sitting up a bit straighter. "It uh, was kind of hard to get to your back but Leo helped me turn you over so—"

"Leo?" John pushes himself up on his elbows, ignoring the screaming pain. "Who else knows I'm here?"

"Uh… I think just Leo. He's across the hall." She leans— very carefully, as if injured, herself— to set her mug on a coaster on the coffee table. She then sets her elbows on her knees and stays bent forward, her eyes searching his face with concern pinching her brow. "But nobody else, unless they saw us carry you in. Think everyone's holed up though. There aren't many of us in this complex anyway. Why? Are you in trouble? I didn't call 911 'cause I thought you might be, not many people get hurt like that without a reason…"

Despite the presence of this mysterious "Leo", John lets his body relax. Another civilian, most likely, if he didn't recognize John. Not an immediate threat. And the absence of emergency services is more of a relief than he cares to admit. "Thank you," he says again, allowing his gratitude at her medical care to be wrapped up in his relief at sustained privacy.

Her eyes brighten. "You're welcome." With the same care as when she leaned forward, she pushes herself up to stand, letting her baseball bat hang loosely at her side. "Are you hungry?"

***

Ari knew that Sam was going to stop at nothing to avenge her sister. The call hadn't been a surprise; he knew that it was only a matter of time. 

What _did_ surprise him was the timing, and he still can't quite figure it.

Not that it's any of his business.

The small cafe is the perfect place for these kinds of meetings. To any outsider, they appear to be friendly business deals, like any of the other thousands that happen in coffee shops every day. As long as things stay amicable, deals are made swiftly and with little to no bloodshed.

Ari likes to think his charm is a great assistant in that.

Before long, the seat across from his is occupied, as easily and smoothly as if the woman had simply materialized, holding her own cup of steaming latte. 

Ari inclines his head. "Lady Volkova."

"Sylvana, please." 

"Sylvana, then. Thank you for meeting with me."

"It's always a pleasure to meet with one of New York's finest."

"You flatter me." He slides an innocuous-looking folder to his companion. She takes a sip from her latte and flips the folder open as he continues. "I apologize for not telling you much over the phone. One can never tell who is overhearing, as I'm sure you know."

A smile flits across her face as she glances up at him. "I'm usually the one doing the overhearing."

"Then you'll take the job?"

"Mm." Not a noise of affirmation but of acknowledgement, her dark eyes back on the file, flipping through pictures and documents quickly before closing the folder and pushing it back across the table. "This is useless to me. Some of this is outdated and some is plainly false. I need current information."

Ari's eyebrows raise, calmly placing the folder back into his suitcase. "I believe gathering that information is _your_ job."

Sylvana smiles again. This time, it doesn't reach her eyes. "It is, indeed."

Ari slides a single envelope across the table and it disappears under the woman's coat. "I'll let Sam know that you've started. Good luck, Sylvana. And as much as you can… keep your distance."

"Thank you, Ari."

***

"Oh be careful when you sit _up_ oh, oh okay you're fine?"

Amelia isn't _entirely_ sure what possessed her to bring this strange, bleeding-out man into her own apartment with naught but a _Hello Kitty_ tee-ball bat to defend herself. Leo called her soft, grunting as he dragged the man into her apartment, crumpling his bloody, jet-black suit.

...An _entirely black_ suit _,_ black shirt, black pants, black tie, black jacket, even his boxers were black. 

...Not that she paid much attention to _that_. Goodness gracious.

Either Leo is crazy, or he trusts her too much. Maybe both. She thinks sometimes maybe _she_ trusts herself too much.

Watching the injured man sit up on her couch, Amelia marvels at how he barely even winces. He mostly just seems tired, and she feels a pang of how familiar that is.

"I don't really have much in the way of food," she says, digging through her cabinets and calling across the bar toward the adjoining living room. "Just…" She looks sadly at the empty boxes in her pantry. She was hoping she could make it all stretch farther, but the midnight munchies takes no prisoners. "Just cold cereal and coffee, I guess."

Her guest says nothing, so Amelia takes that as accepting her offer.

"Sugar or cream?" She pours a generous amount of coffee into her biggest mug (it's one of her favorites— shaped like an elephant with the trunk curling to create the handle— but she figures he probably won't break it. Not like she has any mugs she _isn't_ emotionally attached to).

"Just black, please," he says, barely just loud enough for her to hear. At least… she _thinks_ he said ‘please’. His voice kind of dropped at the end and she wasn't looking at him and the noise of the coffee maker was distracting and… well, it was a nice thought anyway.

"No dairy allergies?" Amelia does look at him this time, only able to make out the contours of his angular face, and he briefly shakes his head as he settles into his seat on her couch. "Cool."

Admittedly skimping on the milk— lactose-free milk is one of her few luxuries— she quickly pours his cereal and tucks a spoon into it, setting both it and the coffee on one of the brightly-colored trays that were drying next to the sink. 

He's staring into the middle distance when she brings him the "meal", but he looks up at her when she comes closer.

His dark eyes are wary. What had been done to him to make him so guarded?

Amelia tries to smile. "I hope you can keep it down. Pain makes me nauseous sometimes."

"It's fine." He takes the tray and sets it on the low table before him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She steps back toward the kitchen, intent on refilling her own mug (or rather, getting a new one; like _heck_ she's going back to retrieve the one she abandoned), but pauses with one hand on the bar.

Her guest is already tucking into the cereal, holding the bowl close to his face and shoveling the bran into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in days.

It's… kind of impressive.

"...Skipped supper?" she manages lamely.

He grunts, in what she assumes is affirmation. When he finally takes a moment to breathe and sip his coffee, she leans on the opposite side of the bar, cupping her new cup of coffee (heavily laden with sugar and cream) in both hands. "My name's Amelia, but people call me Ames. Or Millie. Or Minnie." When he glances up, she gives him a long-suffering smile. "Yes, like the mouse. There are worse nicknames."

He takes another long sip of coffee, making Amelia worry that he'll burn himself. But he doesn't seem bothered, just a bit less groggy. "Coffee's good," he says in that strange monotone voice of his. She smiles with some surprise.

"Good! I'm glad."

Another long pause. Amelia shifts her mug around in her hands, running her thumbs over the smooth ceramic flowers. "...Is there something I can call _you?_ "

Her guest seems almost startled, a flash of… some emotion on his otherwise blank face. Then his eyebrows knit again and he's back to scary-looking. "...John."

"Nice to meet you, John. Wish it was under better circumstances."

John stares at her. She can't figure for the life of her what's going on behind those dark eyes, but she _does_ know that his dark shoulder-length hair is probably tangled and matted, and she has a spare hairbrush somewhere, and she'd offer to brush it out for him so he wouldn't have to reach but that would be weird, wouldn't it be?

Yeah.

His eyebrows rise just a fraction as they stare at each other, and he sets his coffee mug back down on the tray. He then picks the tray up, complete with mug and empty cereal bowl, and carries it to the kitchen.

Amelia is struck dumb and still, making herself small in the corner as he carefully takes the sponge by her sink and washes his dishes, then the tray, setting all of them to dry on the rack next to it. All with enough holes in his body to rival Swiss cheese.

Then he turns, looming over her, tall as a mountain and twice as terrifying. The pitiful kitchen light hovers over his head, casting dark shadows on his face and over her small form.

As with many people of her stature and upbringing, Amelia's first instinct is to shrink. Make herself small, take up as little space as possible. Stay out of the way, don't inconvenience others, don't be annoying, _don't be a target._

But now she's almost thirty years old, and this is _her_ apartment. Consequences be damned, she will _not_ be intimidated in her _own home_.

She stands to her full height and looks him square in the eye.

Something strange happens on John's face, and he shifts half a step backwards. "Thank you for your hospitality," he says, quietly. "And for… patching me up."

Amelia brightens, and leans back against the counter. "You're welcome! Honestly I'm not sure how you're even standing, that looked pretty nasty. Are you in trouble? Do you need to lay low for a night?"

This time he seems frozen, his eyes darting between hers as if trying to process her offer, or maybe trying to determine if she was joking. "You don't know me," he says instead of answering, or maybe that _is_ his answer.

Amelia simply shrugs. "Mrs. Lundholm checks on me every night at midnight and Leo brings me fresh eggs every morning." She glances over him. Her dad's old pullover hoodie and sweatpants are just a tad too big (and the pants are ever-so-slightly too short), but she can imagine he'd clean up well. "...Judging by the suit you were wearing, I think you'd have better things to do than hurt me." _Especially after I saved your life._

She's taking a gamble by assuming so, but the look on his face tells her she's right.

He also looks exhausted, which is probably why he gives a single, slow nod. "I'll pay you back. Somehow."

"Well, you already did the dishes." Cheerful at the prospect of hosting such an interesting guest, Amelia shuffles with her coffee to her original seat, settling into it with a gravelly sigh. "So sit down and let yourself heal a bit, and maybe you can give me an idea of why the _heck_ you got beat up and how on _earth_ you're still standing."


	2. The Only Traveler Who Has Not Repaid His Debt

This is not a predicament John Wick has found himself in before.

He's always preferred to work alone— including where he bunks and what spaces he occupies. Staying in a stranger's home is unfamiliar at best, but right now it's closer to  _ uncomfortable _ .

Unfortunately, he doesn't have much of a choice. He's injured, more severely than he has been in a long time, and if he wants to make it back to his own home without collapsing on the way, he needs to rest and recuperate. The rush of adrenaline from his gig didn't last him long. It seems he won't be able to rely on that for much longer, if he wants to keep doing this kind of work.

Helen had always said he never took care of himself. Of course, he had been busy taking care of her, so he barely felt it.

He feels it now.

Amelia didn't press about how he got his injuries. She was more concerned about him getting more, by being stupid or reckless or whatever she thought he was getting up to, and he managed to convince her that no, he wasn't planning on getting hurt that bad again anytime soon.

_ "Is someone after you? Do you need to take shelter somewhere?" _

_ "No, nothing like that." _

_ "Are you sure? I know people you can stay with, they can protect you from whoever it is—" _

_ "It's taken care of, I promise." _

She frowned. She clearly didn't like how cagey he was being, but he wasn't in the habit of outright lying. He would if he had to. But he doesn't like it.

Thankfully, she allowed him his secrets.  _ "Well, if you need to lay low here, that couch is always open. You should probably get some more sleep, you look 'bout ready to fall over." _

He was, and he didn't like that she noticed.

John slept fitfully, his dreams full of Helen and hospital beds, of sterile equipment and bloody hands. His hands. In his dreams, his hands are whole, the ring finger of his left hand no longer missing, the wedding band gleaming bright and pure, somehow untouched by the blood that drips from his fingers.

When he wakes, there is a stump where that finger should be, and a deep, aching hole in his chest. For a while, he was able to grow used to that hole, to work around it and operate with it without too much trouble. But there are certain days where it screams, demands attention, crying out and begging to be coddled like a needy infant.

The first time that happened was around Christmas last year. He'd thrown himself into his work, taking every job available, exhausting himself until the time passed and he could breathe again.

Valentine's Day was the same.

He tries to remember through the fog of sleep why he did it this time— it had been automatic, almost instinctual. He took a job that took three weeks to accomplish and took every ounce of concentration he had in him. Some duke or representative… it all blurs together after the fact. The job hadn't mattered, what mattered was not needing to think.

But what was it this time? Against his better judgement, his eyes focus on a calendar Amelia has hanging on her wall. 

September.

His wedding anniversary. Helen's, his wife's, death. Daisy's, his dog's, murder. His rampage, his mistakes, his sacrifices. His breach of the Rules and being declared  _ excommunicado  _ from the Continental, the only haven for those who belong in the Underworld. For a time he was a hunted man.

He's now considered dead, and the contract on him fizzled into obscurity. There are still those who believe the rumors of his survival, but only the bravest or most foolish choose to pursue him. He kills them all the same, quietly and without much fuss. For the most part, it's been a quiet life in between the jobs he takes on.

It's been a year since his world came crashing down. And he doesn't want to remember it at all. But the wound, which he thought had healed, feels fresh.

He opens his eyes to see Amelia crouching next to him. She must have heard him wake.

"Hey," she says softly. "I'm leaving a glass of water here. Try not to knock it over, but you should drink as much as you can."

John nods, in a daze, and she disappears, shuffling off to her bedroom and closing the door. He slips off again, fitful as ever.

The next time he wakes it's to a knock at the door, and he's bracing himself to sit up but Amelia is already answering it. He barely makes out her hushed voice.

"Yes, he's still here… no, I don't think he's dangerous. He's pretty badly hurt… yes, tomorrow. Thank you, Mrs. Lundholm… goodnight."

The door shuts and she pauses at her bedroom door, noticing that he's propped up on his elbows, tense and as alert as he can be in his state. "I'm going to bed now, John," she says, her tone calm. "If you need anything just holler. Bathroom's right here," she leans to indicate a door shortly down the hall, "and it's connected to my room but that door will be locked. Don't pick at your wounds, okay? Goodnight."

"'Night," is all John can manage before her door is closed and he's left with many confusing thoughts and feelings, not the least of which being  _ why is she trusting me like this? _

He could ponder it until his muscles atrophy, but that won't do him any good. Instead, he sleeps.

***

It's been about four weeks since Sylvana was first tasked to track down and monitor John Wick— or, as she knew him, Jardani Jovonovich. Tracking him down was simple enough; he knew where to go to lay low, and he probably had contacts who gave him a place to stay and added security. She knew where he lived, but that wasn't of much consequence. He didn't spend much time there, probably didn't do much except eat and sleep within those walls. Nice enough apartment, but a far cry from what he was used to. 

It made her smile. He'd gone from rugged orphan to marine, to spoiled hitman with a six-car garage and now he's back to living in cramped quarters without a friend in the world. She almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

But she laughed, instead.

She watched him for a week before he disappeared. Walked down the sidewalk with his dog at his side— an adorable black-and-white pitbull— wearing a fine all-black suit and carrying a suitcase at his side. Subtle, Jardani. Real subtle.

Then she lost track of him, and she stopped laughing.

She knew where the dog was— dropped off at a seedy-looking homeless shelter, which she knew to be the headquarters of the Bowery, an Underground intelligence network. She'd never had dealings with the Bowery King himself, but her mother had always warned her far away from that. 

At least now she knows where Jardani gets his income. How far he's fallen.

Instead of waiting around for as long as it takes for her target to reappear, and knowing it would be fruitless to chase after him, Sylvana digs. New York is ripe with gossip and records, and sometimes all it takes is a well-timed smile and a sympathetic ear to gather everything she needs. Before long, she manages to put together a fairly good idea of what Jardani's life has been like for the past year since his "death".

It doesn't surprise her how lonely he's been.

It  _ does  _ surprise her how busy he's been.

One would think that he wouldn't be able to get as many jobs without operating under his own name, but apparently he's been doing grunt work. Taking out no-names, splitting up gangs, jobs that usually only beginner hitmen are willing to take. A legendary assassin like Jardani could do those in his sleep. 

Maybe that's his goal. Generate enough income to pay for rent and groceries, stay occupied. No schemes of vengeance or making his way back to the top.

By all appearances, all Jardani wants to do is be left alone.

How ironic, considering what she is here to do.

Sylvana grins, biting the end of her pen. Fellow patrons of the cafe ignore her; after all, she's just another customer doing work on a Friday evening. She has a notebook and a pen and her smartphone and a latte, all hallmarks of a busy woman.

The seat across from her is occupied, and she looks up at the person with a raised eyebrow. Now all eyes are on their table. A Romani woman in worn clothing looks back at Sylvana with wide eyes. She wouldn't dare approach this publicly if it weren't important.

"Well?" Sylvana probes, ignoring the distrustful glance of the baristas. 

" _ He's back _ ," the woman whispers in Russian. " _ He was seen just down the street, almost dead. Then he disappeared into one of the apartments." _

That nearby? It seems her patience has been rewarded. Sylvana responds, also in Russian. " _ Keep an eye on him. Don't get too close. Report back when he leaves." _

" _ Yes, Lady Volkova." _

Sylvana pulls a stack of bills and a single gold coin from her jacket, pressing them in the woman's palm. "Thank you, Abigail. Tell your sisters hello for me."

Abigail's head bobs once, then she's gone, the bell on the door jingling and the remaining patrons of the cafe heaving a collective sigh.

Sylvana suppresses her annoyance, and downs the rest of her latte. It seems it's time to take a walk.

***

John wakes with the sun, a habit he's never shaken since his marine days. The light is barely starting to filter through the curtains just above his head, making him realize that the couch he's been sleeping on is under a window. The curtains are pink, with white polka-dots.

Carefully,  _ very _ carefully, he pushes himself into a sitting position. The couch isn't exactly  _ uncomfortable _ , but the wounds on his body make it difficult to adjust positions, so his neck is stiff and his joints complain. Despite that he manages to sit up, bracing himself as his head swims.

Amelia's bedroom door is closed and there's no light glowing underneath, so it's probable that she's still asleep. However, there's a pot of freshly-brewed coffee on the kitchen counter, and it calls his name.

He's suddenly grateful for the warm hoodie when his bare feet hit the ground— there doesn't seem to be centralized heating in this apartment. A space heater sits in the corner of the living room. He bends to turn it on, then goes back to the coffee.

Finding the mug he'd used the night before, John fills it halfway. He notices it's shaped like a cartoon elephant, and when he takes the time to look around the rest of the small kitchen, he sees more mugs hanging up under the cabinets. There aren't a lot of them, but they're all eccentric and almost juvenile: one is shaped like an owl, another has some kind of cross-stitched pattern printed on it, yet another seems to portray kittens playing with a ball of yarn and above the picture the name "Amelia" is printed in saccharine script.

Eccentric, but a bit charming.

Now that the room is lit with early-morning sunlight, John takes a closer look at the decor around the apartment. It isn't lavish, rather it's… homey. Warm. Pillows and stuffed animals sit on shelves and chairs, all well-loved. Cross-stitched pictures hang on the walls, featuring colorful phrases ranging from "laugh at yourself" to "fudge the system", all bordered with delicate flowers and wildlife in pastel colors. He wonders if she did them herself.

There's a single photograph hanging on the wall, hanging right next to Amelia's bedroom door, and John steps closer to examine it. It appears to be her, maybe a few years younger, her arms around the neck of a much older man. Their cheeks are pressed together, and they both grin widely at the camera. With their faces right next to each other, it’s easy to guess the man’s identity as her father. John's hand comes up to touch the worn logo on his borrowed hoodie.

_ "Sorry, those were my dad's. He was a bit… broader than you, but better than smaller I guess."  _

_ Was.  _

John feels a pang in his chest.

Then the doorbell rings and he almost spills his coffee.

Before he can react, there's shuffling, a muffled " _ Coming! _ ", and his hostess emerges, wrapped in a fuzzy robe and looking worse than he feels.

She blinks up at him blearily through crooked glasses as he stumbles backward, hitting the kitchen counter in his haste.

"Sorry," he says lamely.

Finally seeming to recognize him, Amelia offers a smile that seems more of a grimace. "Morning," she croaks, before shuffling to the door. When she opens it, an older man in a black tanktop and sporting many tattoos offers her a small cardboard egg carton. "Mornin', Minnie," he grouches, peering past her at John, who holds his coffee limply.

"Mornin', Leo," Amelia yawns. "I'm alive."

"Glad to see that," he says, still squinting at her guest. "No incidents?"

"Nope, not a one."

Leo finally looks at Amelia, and his bushy eyebrows crease in concern instead of suspicion. "You doin' okay?"

John can't see her face, but he can imagine that she smiles. That seems to be her natural state of being. "Just a rough night. I'm okay now. Would you like to officially meet our patient?"

She steps aside and Leo steps into her apartment, zeroing in on John with laser focus. John isn't exactly intimidated, but he has a healthy respect for this Leo, who allegedly helped Amelia carry him into her apartment. So he offers a polite nod as the man approaches.

"Thanks for your help," he says.

"Hrmph," Leo responds, setting the eggs on the counter and turning back to Amelia. "How is this man standing, Minnie?"

She shrugs, taking slow steps to the coffee and pouring a mug before handing it to the older man. "I was wondering the same thing. At least he didn't need stitches." She smiles at John, confirming his previous suspicion.

All he can do is shake his head. "I'm… used to it," he says simply, watching Leo's scowl deepen and meeting his eyes evenly.

"You get into trouble a lot, boy?"

"No, but enough."

"Oh, leave him alone, Leo," Amelia sighs, pouring her own coffee and stirring in sugar and cream. "He doesn't owe us anything."

"He's sleeping on your couch, he owes you  _ something _ ," Leo protests.

John cuts in. "I appreciate the help," he says. "I'll be out of your hair as soon as I get dressed."

"Absolutely not," Amelia says, at the same time as Leo says, "You're in no condition!" 

John blinks, taken aback. "I…"

"I'm gonna get groceries," Amelia says, sipping her coffee. "After breakfast. Y'all want eggs?"

"Sounds great," Leo says. Both look at John, who suddenly feels very, very out of place.

He can't see any way to get out of this. So he nods.

**Author's Note:**

> Sylvana belongs to my friend Rebecca, and has been repurposed for the sake of this fic. I am very pleased and honored to include her in this story and am very grateful to Rebecca for granting me permission.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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